


No Reservations (Okay, Maybe a Few)

by FavorsTheFoolish



Series: Haute Cuisine [1]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, F/F, Gen, M/M, Past Handsome Jack/Nisha - Freeform, Slow Burn, Threats of Violence, alcohol use, borderlandsreversebang, canon-typical ableist language, eventual Rhack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 04:10:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14072613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FavorsTheFoolish/pseuds/FavorsTheFoolish
Summary: Handsome Jack's restaurant is the best, no matter what Lilith down the street thinks about her slop house. If that weren't bad enough, he has to share the only bar by night, coffee shop by day that's worth a damn with them too. That includes watching the cute as hell leggy bartender flirt with everyone but him, and, on top of all that, he has no idea what drink to order.Inspired by the artwork of Tumblr's c0njidraws!





	No Reservations (Okay, Maybe a Few)

“Baby, when are you gonna dump this sad little dive bar and come work for me?” 

Rhys snorted, cocking his hip to ease the ache in his feet as he worked the cocktail shaker. 

“If I worked for you, where would you drink?” he retorted, straining away the ice from a Boulevardier, a drop of vermillion escaping over his wrist. Jack watched it travel down along the path of Rhys’ tendon, then back up as he placed a twist of lemon rind on the rim. 

“You’ve got a little…” the man on the other side of the bar said, leaning back on his stool, the gold and black embroidered “Handsome Jack” on the front of his white coat standing out even in the dim bar lights. Rhys didn’t think he licked it off himself in a particularly sexy way, but Jack clapped a hand to his heart and groaned. “You are killing me, precious.”

Rhys rolled his eyes. 

“Try not to miss me too hard,” he said, grabbing napkins and gathering the drinks he’d made for the small group at the other end of the bar. “And figure out what you want by the time I get back.”

“Oh I know what I--”

“To order,” Rhys cast back over his shoulder. Jack deflated ever so slightly, sneering down at the part at the opposite end of the bar. Who the fuck wore scarlet- oh, sorry, ‘crimson’- chef whites? Amateurs, that was fucking who. People who didn’t realize that real chefs got dirty, and that meant scalding hot water and a lot of bleach. 

Gimmicky little fuckers. Jack pulled out his phone and searched Instagram for #TheVault to see what pictures their gimmick-loving hipster patrons had posted and waited for Rhys to get done fawning over the tall skinny one who couldn’t even drink what Rhys had made them without a crazy straw that went… somewhere… under his full-masked helmet. 

Of course. Jack considered getting up to go and retrieve his favorite bartender, or at least start a really one-sided five-on-one fight with the staff of The Vault, when a weight landed on either or his shoulders.

“Don’t,” the voice on his left said, his twin brother Tim settling onto the barstool on that side with a weary, exasperated look.

“Do fucking not,” came from his right, punctuated with a flick to his ear as his ex and second in command sat beside him. Nisha pointed a sharp purple fingernail in his face. “This is the last fucking place within ten miles that still serves food by the time we’re done inflating your ego that you haven’t gotten us banned from, and if I lose the right to fried mozzarella and whisky sours, I will murder you and burn your fucking restaurant to the goddamn ground. Clear?”

“Clear,” Jack grumbled. 

“Thanks for helping close by the way,” Tim muttered, looking utterly exhausted, but perking up when Rhys came back over to their side of the bar. “Hey stretch.”

“Hey gorgeous,” Rhys replied, ignoring Jack’s little jaw drop of indignation. “What can I get you?”

Tim sighed miserably.

“Are you hiring?” he asked, slumping. 

“Seriously?” Jack groused, shooting Tim a betrayed look which Tim ignored. 

“We can’t afford you, Tim,” Rhys said sadly. “And I can’t afford to lose your generous tips. But I’ll make you whatever you want.”

“Surprise me?” Tim asked him, plunking his head into his arms. “I’m too tired to think.”

Rhys chuckled, patting Tim’s head.

“Something sweet?” 

Tim raised his head and nodded, big puppy eyes fully deployed, and Rhys went to the back.

“Stop that,” Jack snapped. Nisha pushed Jack’s shoulder.

“Don’t be a dick to your brother just because your not-boyfriend won’t put out,” she scolded. 

“He’s not my not-boyfriend; shut up,” Jack answered. Nisha rested her chin on the heel of her hand and peered at Jack.

“Like you’re not riding the envy train because Rhys is making Tim something special, just for him, right now while you’re drinking tap water on the rocks,” she chuckled meanly. 

“It’s club soda, and I’m still deciding what I want!” Jack muttered, pretending to study the specials written in lurid paint pen on the mirror behind the bar. “Just because you’re half-whiskey and all sour. Boring. I like a little variety Nish.”

Variety came back from the back, and Tim sat bolt upright, eyes wide, and extended his hands like Rhys was offering him the holy grail. 

“Oh my god,” Tim whispered, gently lowering the frosty hurricane glass to the bartop. “It’s so beautiful. What’s in it? Is that a Girl Scout cookie?”

Jack peered at the concoction, which looked like a chocolate shake.

“You brought him a milkshake? What are we, five?” he chuckled. 

“That, Tim, is what I like to call the Cookie Mafia, and yes, that is a Caramel deLite on the rim," Rhys answered Tim, ignoring Jack. "Try it, tell me what you think.”

Jack didn’t have that much of a sweet tooth, but he was absolutely jealous that Rhys had gotten Tim to make that noise and not him.

“Jesus, keep it in your pants, Tim,” he muttered as his twin sang Rhys’ praises, Rhys drinking it all in like sunshine while making Nisha her whiskey sour. 

“What about you?” Rhys asked Jack. “You make up your mind yet?”

“Depends,” Jack replied, “Whaddaya got that’ll make me make that noise?”

“At this point, you’ll be lucky if I serve you a shitty light beer, Jack,” Rhys sighed in exasperation, stalking off to go serve people who’d actually order something.

“Smooth,” Tim snickered. 

“So smooth,” Nisha echoed. 

Jack sighed and sipped his water. 

***

The downside of one's favorite bartender refusing to guess at your ideal drink was being responsible for all one's siblings, employees, exes, friends, or combinations of those categories getting home safely. The upside was getting to torture all of them the next day when you were the only one without a hangover.

"Good morning, ungrateful leeches!" Jack bellowed, smacking a saucepan with a spoon. "Wakey wakey, fucksticks! Get to work or I will put your pickled livers on the menu! Prep! Prep like your lives depend on it because they absolutely do!"

He was in mid-spoon-swing when he came eyeball to knife tip with Nisha.

"Shut. Up."

Jack grinned. 

"Rough night, sunshine?" he asked. 

Nisha dropped her arm. 

"Go get me an egg biscuit and coffee from the Skag if you want to live until dinner service," she snarled.

Jack laughed.

"It's two, Nish, they stopped serving breakfast-"

"Ask for Fiona and say it's for me," Nisha ordered. "If you come back empty handed, gruesome murder."

Jack, glancing around at the faces of his staff, considering mutiny, decided to go to the Purple Skag after all.

The Skag looked a lot different by day. The bartop was lined with glass pastry cases, the smell of coffee overwhelmed the smell of beer, and Rhys had been replaced with two attractive sisters and a surly blond barista whose soul patch radiated judgement.

Feeling magnanimous, Jack decided to get pastries for all the employees he had yet to replace with large robots, in addition to Nisha's hangover brunch. 

“Hey, toots, can I get two of each of what's in the case, a large dark roast, a large London Fog, and an egg biscuit to go?"

"We stop serving breakfast at eleven," Sasha, the younger of the two sisters said. "Sorry, but if  
you want, chicken salad is on special."

Jack rolled his eyes and sighed. 

"Hooookay, would it help if I asked for Fiona and said it's for Nisha?"

Sasha rolled hers right back.

"Ugh. Yeah, hang on. Fi! Ms. Trouble wants an egg biscuit, is that cool?"

Fiona burst out of the back, looking notably deflated when she saw Jack.

"Yeah, I can do that," she said, adjusting her hat and retreating. Jack barked a laugh, slapping his leg.

"Something funny?" Sasha asked, aggressively wiping down the bar.

"Ah, c'mon," Jack protested. "It's cute! Your sister's got a stupid crush on my asshole friend! That's hilarious!"

"Is that a requirement to work at Hyperion?" Sasha asked coldly. "Must be willing to fuck with people who like you?"

Jack rocked back and forth on his heels and thought about it.

"Look, Nish doesn't really humor people, so if she was totally not into it, she would've said. She's an asshole, but she's not a manipulative asshole. I wouldn't stress too much."

"Oh yeah," Sasha sneered. "She's the only one I'm talking about.”

“Hey Sash, maybe Rhys wouldn’t want you talking about this,” the barista said over the scream of the milk steamer. “Not that I give a shit about his opinions, but, you know.”

Jack scowled.

“Rhys the bartender? Why would he give a shit who flirts with who? He practically flirts for a living." Jack narrowed his eyes, leaning on the counter and staring harder at Sasha. “Or, what, does Rhysie have a thing for Bowler McChaplin back there?”

Sasha looked at Jack like he was the stupidest person to ever catch a whiff of a coffee bean.

"Order up," said Fiona, setting it on the windowsill. “And it’s a derby, asshole,” she added, adjusting her hat.

Sasha snatched the bag, stalked to the register, punched his total into the touchscreen, then spun it to face him. Grudgingly, he inserted his card, and the second he removed it, Sasha spun it back to face herself. 

“Wow, ‘sir,’ that’s such a generous tip! We really appreciate it!” she beamed, handing him his receipt.

He looked at the total and snorted. 

“Two hundred percent,” he muttered. “Wow, I’m a real hero.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll cut Rhys in, since you never order anything to tip him for,” Sasha replied, then looked past him to the increasingly irritated people in line behind him. “Next!”

Jack moved to the end of the counter, gathering the bags, and August walked up.

“Your London Fog,” he said sullenly. “Sir.”

Jack burst out laughing when he saw the picture August hand created in the foam on top of his drink: A perfectly rendered hand, middle finger extended.

“I love this fuckin’ place,” Jack sighed, taking a sip. “Catch you pricks later.”

“Right back at you, fucko,” August replied, struggling not to grin himself.

Jack strolled the short distance down the block to Hyperion, glancing at the menus of nearby establishments, reaction ranging from indifference to disgust. This was supposed to be the fine dining district, damn it, not the regurgitated Food Network shit district. Despite the mediocrity on his route home, the biggest insult in the vicinity was still, and would always be, the Vault.

Jack had to pass it on the way back to Hyperion, and despised the place a little more for being closer to the Purple Skag than his own restaurant (though the Vault dickheads had to cross the street, and Jack kept his fingers crossed that they’d all get run down jaywalking someday). The Head Dickhead In Charge, Lilith Hawke, was leaning against her own door frame, smoking a cigarette.

“Y’know, I always wondered how someone could serve well done steak and still look at themselves in the mirror,” Jack called out, “but you smoking away your basic-ass palate? Suddenly it all makes sense.”

Lilith flipped her bangs back and smiled.

“Whereas you ruined yours with all the shit coming out of your mouth,” she called back. “You should add some red to your decor, throw on some clown shoes, maybe a drive-thru.”

"Yeah, I bet you'd like that, you wouldn't even have to get out of your shitty car to steal my menu; real convenient!" Jack cackled.

“Why would I steal your boring-ass recipes, Jack?” Lilith spat, throwing her cigarette down and grinding it out. Jack rolled his eyes.

“Oh yeah, I’m the boring one,” he sneered. “Name five things on your menu that don’t have flambé or blackened in the name that aren’t a damn salad, I’ll wait.”

“No, you won’t,” Nisha snarled from behind him, still lurking in the shadows of the doorway while wincing at the sunlight. “Because if my food gets cold--”

Jack turned irritably and thrust the bag at her.

“Here, Jesus, go feed the animals,” he snapped. Nisha snatched it and stalked back inside.

“The old lady have a few too many last night?” Lilith laughed. 

“Sure, wait until she’s gone back inside to say that shit, you fuckin’ coward,” Jack snarled, starting across the street. 

“Would you both shut the hell up?!” 

Jack and Lilith looked up to see an exceptionally angry Rhys half hanging out of a window from a nearby building.

“I have about six fucking hours in the day to sleep, so do you think you could do this another time? Or anyplace else?”

Jack blinked in surprise.

“Rhysie? You live here?”

Rather than respond, Rhys slammed the window shut. Glaring at Lilith one last time, Jack went inside, shaking his head in disgust at his kitchen staff destroying the pastries he’d brought like a school of piranha on a leg of lamb.

“Since when does Rhys live next door?” Jack demanded, shuddering as he watched Wilhelm put an entire pain au chocolat into his mouth and swallow it. Tim, sucking glaze from a cinnamon roll off his fingers, blinked.

“Rhys the bartender? He and his roommate moved in like seven months ago,” Tim said. “How did you not know that?”

“You better clean up all those crumbs before service, you fuckers,” Jack snarled, storming back into the kitchen. Nisha was perched on a stool, having stuck a straw into her coffee so that she could sharpen her favorite knives while sucking in caffeine. The crumpled bag from where she’d devoured her egg sandwich was beside her on the counter.

“That good, huh?” Jack smirked, heading back to one counter to go over what needed prepping. Nisha swallowed her coffee, already looking less homicidal.

“The best,” she said. “How’s Fiona?”

Jack chuckled.

“Disappointed that you weren’t there in person. Little sis kinda wants your head on a plate for leading her on.”

Nisha snorted.

“And if I just went for it, she’d want my head on a plate for compromising big sis’s virtue. Sasha can suck it up; I’m not trying to date her.”

Jack shrugged.

“She seems pissed at damn near everyone,” Jack said. Nisha laughed, setting one knife down and picking up the next.

“And by everyone, you mean me,” she said, pointing the blade at him, “and you.”

“What did I ever do to them?” Jack groaned. “I bet it was those fucking Vault shitheads, ‘waah, Jack fired me, waah, Jack stabbed my boyfriend, waah, I can’t get Muscovy duck in town anymore because Jack--’”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s it,” Nisha interrupted. “Moron.”

Jack threw his hands in the air.

“Seriously?” he shouted. “Tell me what they think I did or you’re fired.”

Nisha was unimpressed.

“What’s a downgrade from moron? Imbecile? Vegan?” she set her knife down and turned to face him fully. “Every night, you go to the Skag. Every night, you try to get in the pants of the cute bartender. Every night, you never order anything. You don’t leave him a number, you don’t ask him out, you just offer him a job or your dick, sometimes both. And you wonder why his friends don’t like you.”

Jack shook his head and turned back to the prep list. 

“He’s a bartender,” Jack said dismissively. “Flirting is kind of in the job description, isn’t it?”

A paper ball hit him in the back of the head, and he spun back around to see Nisha’s breakfast bag on the ground, and Nisha shaking her head.

“This is why I had to jump you to get anything started with us,” she said. “You’re dumber than a bag of hair when it comes to this shit. Answer me this: Has Rhys ever actually flirted with you?”

Before he could answer, or even think about it too hard, Nisha walked out to shout at the rest of the kitchen crew to get the fuck back to work before she filleted them with her newly sharpened knives. 

Jack picked the sandwich bag up off the floor and threw it out, going over to the sink to wash his hands.

“Hey, Onionbot,” he shouted. “Five pounds of yellow onions, minced. If I find any damn skin in there, you’re scrap.”

“I should report you to the labor bureau,” it replied, whirring into life. “The blender also has complaints.”

***

Jack ditched cleanup after dinner, as usual, and trudged down to The Purple Skag. There was an industrial conference in town. Jack remembered most of the company names, robotics. He’d thought about going into it himself, in college, before he discovered that he really prefered knives, meat, heat, and spices, and the power trip that came with people putting what he’d made into their mouths and feeling it, needing it, the unbridled desire and satisfaction that he could drag out of people out of something as basic as food.

He stood outside the Skag, trying to decide it if was worth dealing with the last batch of conference-going drunks, trying to make a vacation out of work, trying to get laid, trying to seem interesting, to go inside. 

Through the window, he saw the back of Lilith’s helmet-wearing employee’s head, and saw Rhys’ shiny metal arm as Rhys leaned on it from the other side of the bar, and would you look at that, Jack found his thirst after all. He pushed open the door and strolled inside, taking up his usual stool and playing with a cardstock coaster. Rhys glanced up from the other end of the bar, and his smile faded a little bit. Despite that, he walked over anyway.

“How’s it going?” Jack asked. Rhys shrugged.

“Another day, another dollar,” he said, setting Jack’s club soda on the rocks in front of him without prompting. “You know what you want?” 

Jack looked up at the mirror.

“Five minutes,” he said. “Give me five minutes, and I swear, I will order something.” 

Rhys looked skeptical, and a just a little extremely disappointed, and turned away to make the drinks that the wait staff had requested from the people at tables. 

Jack stared desperately at the mirror, neon paint, blue, pink, lime green, orange, suggestions and specials and god damn it, he just needed to make a decision by the time Rhys turned back around, and then Rhys might grin at him, give him that same in-the-job-description warmth and empathy that Tim got, Nisha and Wil and every other damn person who worked for him and even the fuckfaces from the Vault got. 

He just had to make a decision. 

Rhys was walking back over. Jack swallowed hard, and made up his mind.

“Light beer, then?” Rhys asked, distant and unprofessionally professional.

“Daiquiri,” Jack said, too quiet.

“I didn’t catch that,” Rhys said, refusing to lean in, making Jack speak up.

“I said a daiquiri,” he repeated. Rhys tilted his head.

“Yeah? What kind?” he asked. Jack snorted.

“Bubblegum, what do you think? The classic.” 

Rhys rocked back on his heels, looking rattled for a moment. 

“Thought you didn’t have a sweet tooth.” 

Jack shrugged, picking the layers of the coaster apart, leaf by leaf, with his thumbnail. 

“So you’re testing me,” Rhys said. “The test of the quote-unquote bartender.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, and went for the top shelf rum instead. It wasn’t fancy, or particularly elegant, just a few efficient pours, squeezes, and shakes, and then the glass was in front of Jack. 

Jack took a sip, and Rhys waited.

“It’s perfect,” Jack said.

“You don’t seem impressed,” Rhys said. “This was supposed to be hard, so…?”

Jack groaned, thunking his head onto the bar a few times.

“Rhysie… I’ve been impressed! I’m impressed right now! I was impressed with goddamn club soda and a twist of lime, I was impressed watching you from the opposite end of the bar, why do you think I kept trying to hire you?” 

Rhys didn’t answer, and finally Jack raised his eyes enough to look up at him. 

“I don’t know why you do anything you do, Jack,” Rhys answered. “I don’t know why you own a restaurant, I don’t know why it took you months to make up your mind and order something, I don’t know a damn thing about you, not really.” 

Jack took a breath.

“Okay, but do you want to?” Jack asked. “Because I’m curious as hell, kiddo, that’s why I had such a hard time figuring out what to ask for.”

Rhys nodded.

“Yeah, I do. But it has to be a two way street, okay? So… one for one?” he said, fiddling with his bar mop nervously. “Question for question?”

“Anything you want, kiddo. Can I go first?” Jack asked, the question he’d had since he’d started coming here eating away at him. Rhys shrugged uneasily.

“Sure.”

Jack took a deep breath.

“How come you never flirt with me, cupcake?” he asked, trying not to sound as whiny or needy as he felt. “You flirt with Timmy, Wilhelm, Nish, even those Vault creeps, but you’re always so damn serious with me.”

Rhys relaxed visibly.

“I’m a bartender,” he said. “Flirting leads to good tips. At this point, it’s kind of a habit, like wiping down the bar, it’s just… part of the job. And I just…”

Jack fidgeted but didn’t prompt him. Rhys continued:

“I felt like if I flirted with you, I didn’t want it to be work. But I never see you anywhere else, so… I never really got a chance.”

Rhys blew out a breath.

“Okay,” he said. “I guess it’s my turn. Why do you and Lilith hate each other so damn much? It seems like way more than professional competition.”

Jack swallowed around a suddenly dry throat, picking up his daiquiri and drinking down the rest in one gulp.

“That, uh… actually requires a visual aide, cupcake. Do you have a second to head to the back?” 

Rhys nodded after a moment, heading to the other end of the bar to inform Yvette, who helped behind the bar on busy nights, that he was taking a break. Yvette took one look at Jack and smirked.

Rhys took Jack back not to the kitchen but to the business office, dimly lit with Vaughn’s favorite lamp with the green glass shade, and sat on the edge of the desk. Jack settled heavily in one of the chairs and sighed.

“Lilith and I went to culinary school together. Never did get along, but the further we got, the worse it got. She does this stupid shit like… did you know she served caviar on a wooden hand, like one of those artist model things with the bendy fingers? Not even in the palm, either, just like… piled up on the thumb, who does that?”

“So… you hate her for eccentric plating?” 

Jack sighed.

“No, not just that. We were in competition for top of our class, and that fight got pretty dirty. I’d swap her sugar for salt, she’d swap my cornstarch for confectioner’s sugar. I’d freeze dry her protein to a husk, she’d fuck with my oven until mine was a cinder. I was working on a new technique for Eridium searing steak. It was so good, pumpkin, perfect sear on the outside, and then tartar all through the center, but no risk of food poisoning because the Eridium killed all the bacteria and any parasites, and it adds this crazy scrumptious taste to everything, it’s like if umami had a sexy cousin who liked to give hot stone massages. I’d engineered new equipment to do this and everything.”

Jack reached up to his face and tentatively unlatched the clips on his mask, removing it, and looked up at Rhys. There was a deep parabolic scar cutting across his features.

“So, yeah. She sabotaged it. Damn thing exploded during my final, fucked up my face, actually killed the professor. I barely avoided jail time, and she fucking ruined my face.”

Jack stared at his lap, grinning ruefully.

“You’ve seen Timmy, Rhys, I used to be so damn good lookin’.”

Rhys kicked his shin lightly.

“Hey,” he said. “You’re still so damn good lookin’. And some of us think scars are hot, so…” Rhys shrugged. Jack grinned like a jackal.

“‘Some of us,’ huh?”

Rhys scowled, face coloring.

“Shut up, take the compliment. So that explains why you hate her, but why does she hate you back? I’d think killing your teacher might, you know, make her reconsider the feud?”

“Oh that,” Jack laughed. “Yeah, well… You know the big guy, Roland? Well, they’re all on again, off again, and during one of the on-again times, I kind of stabbed him.”

Rhys’ jaw dropped.

“Stabbed him,” he said.

“Right in the kidney!” Jack cackled. “Well, left kidney, but still. He was stealing my lobster tank.”

Rhys sighed again. Jack pointed at him in dismay.

“Hey, no, if you’d ever had my lobster you’d know that that is a really big deal, princess! Melt in your mouth doesn’t cover it.”

Rhys nodded, resigned.

“Okay, okay. Jeez. No trying to kill each other here, okay? I need all the tips I can get.”

Jack shrugged one shoulder.

“Yeah, fine. I guess they can live if they’re helping keep a roof over your head,” he said. He carefully set his expression so he could reattach his mask, fastening each latch. “You wouldn’t have to worry so much if you came and worked for me.”

Rhys stood up.

“Yeah, so you keep saying. C’mon, Yvette’ll kill me if I leave her out there forever.”

Jack got up too, letting Rhys usher him out before locking the office behind them.

“So does this mean you’re gonna start treating me like the other customers?” Jack asked. Rhys shrugged, coyly, brushing past to head back to the bar.

“I don’t know, Jack,” he shot back over his shoulder. “Did you decide that’s what you want?” 

Jack watched him go, heading back more slowly to his barstool where Nisha and Tim had managed to join him. 

“You’re still stupid,” Nisha said as she glanced at Rhys, serving the Vault assholes at the other end of the bar, and back at Jack. 

“Yeah, Nish,” Jack said. “I know.”


End file.
